


Foreigner's God

by himboplantdad



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Catholic Steve Rogers, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurts So Good, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, It's gonna hurt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Steve Rogers, Pansexual Tony Stark, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter is a Beard, Post-Iron Man 2, Religion, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve is having trouble adjusting, This is exceedingly close to a religion kink, This will make you feel things, Tony introduces Steve to the 21st century, it's all so gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himboplantdad/pseuds/himboplantdad
Summary: After being traumatized with Catholic Guilt, living through a war, and suffering through decades of homophobia, Steve Rogers has learned to shove his problems to the back of his mind. That habit is put to the test when he wakes up in 2009, and is forced to live with Tony Stark, who embodies everything he's uncomfortable with.Or,A story where Steve trades the religion he's grown up in, for one of his own design that's got a much better ending: love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	1. The ninth layer

When Steve first woke up from the ice, he thought he was in hell.

He read about the deepest parts of hell being cold, once. Reserved only for the worst traitors, those who’d turned their backs on their friends, their family, their country. Brutus, Cain, Judas. 

For someone who’d watched his best friend — his everything — plummet to an icy abyss, maybe it was fitting. Being put with the traitors. 

Maybe hell was real, and he’d just woken up to his eternity facing the consequences. Back when his ma had dragged him to mass, the priests would talk about treachery. They’d warn people about turning away from the light. Away from the warmth of God and toward proclivities, or tendencies, or something. He’d never paid all that much attention, not when his mind kept flitting to the way Bucky’s hair defied the laws of gravity and hair pomade, curling up at the ends as he sat in the pew next to him.

Steve really should’ve paid attention in mass.

Breathing was the hardest. He couldn’t move his chest, and he was sure there was still water from the Arctic in his lungs. It was worse than all the asthma attacks he used to have, worse than all the chest colds in the world bundled together. He thought he could hear himself wheeze, once. He wanted to raise his hand to his chest, to put pressure over the star of his uniform, over his heart.

But Jesus Christ, did he instantly regret that. Like tripping a livewire, his skin ignited into one big blossom of burning pain, intense enough he’d scream if he could manage the breath. Worse, a million times worse, than when he’d got his tongue stuck to a light pole for nearly an hour, all over his body. He wanted to sob. He thought he did, maybe.

There were muffled noises around him, far away words and distant echoes that reminded him of those constantly-arguing neighbors on the other side of their bedroom wall in Brooklyn. _His_ bedroom wall. Not ‘their.’ Not anymore.

Well. Maybe not ‘his,’ either. Considering he was in hell, and all. 

Most of the words he could decipher were familiar. _Captain. Valkyrie. Ice. Shield. The war. Cube. Serum._ Others made … less sense.

_Triskelion. World Security Council. Rehabilitation. Therapy._

And then: _Stark._

Howard. 

No way in hell was Howard in— well, hell. Not when Howard was supposed to be safe. He had to be safe. They’d seen one another just that morning, the genius smirking above Steve in victory after successfully sneaking up on him and knocking him over with his own shield. Chattering about taking this one lady behind the bookshelf, and _oh, I guess you’re off, so I’ll see ya when you get back, right, pal?_

The memory was so vivid, he could almost reach out and touch it. _Thanks, superserum-enhanced memory,_ Steve thought begrudgingly.

But the memory? It was so close. Just enough to pry his eyes open and hope for the best—

_Oh._

He didn’t expect to see an angel.

 _Bucky?_ He wanted to ask the question. Wanted that to be the case. Was desperate for it. What a horrible person he was, hoping the love of his life was in hell by his side. What a terrible thing it was, to feel a pang of disappointment when his vision focused, and the angel’s outline became clearer.

Not Bucky. 

He really should’ve paid more attention in mass.

Golden warmth radiated from the hazy lights surrounding the man, and a celestial blue from the center of his chest. Wide, amber eyes were gazing down at him with interest, as the chestnut curls dangling over his forehead moved with each exhale from cherry red lips, which parted so carefully to say—

“Holy shit, this motherfucker’s not _comatose?”_

Okay. Maybe not an angel. But he spoke English.

And God, the man said he was alive. Sort of. Not comatose. Steve was _alive._ He was alive, and he was in a makeshift hospital room with state of the art tech, probably set up in some swanky office building somewhere, if the sleek tile walls and streamlined machinery were to hint at anything.

Was that really possible? Had Peggy found the Valkyrie? Had Howard and his team come to save him? How long had it taken them? The Captain tried to form the questions, tried to force his burning throat into submission. Nothing escaped, save for another wheeze that had another man, someone in a dark, leather trench coat, pushing past the not-angel and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy there, Captain. You need your rest. You’re safe. Back in the States,” the trench coat and eyepatch man warned in a low, rumbling voice that still sounded far away. He had the SSR’s logo on his shirt, filling Steve with relief. He really was alive. And, apparently, not in the hands of HYDRA. “Getting you figured out, that’s the priority. News comes later.”

Yeah, maybe not something to tell a fella who’d just crashed a damn bomb-filled plane into the middle of the ocean, hoping it’d make for a lack of news.

 _Here goes nothing,_ Steve thought, and used as much effort as he could to force himself upward. One forearm at a time. One burning movement after the other. One painful second in front of the next, shooting the — one (eyepatch man), two (not-angel man), three (almost balding, weird suit man) — the three men in the room around him a dirty look for making any movement to push him back, all stepping forward and ready to spot him.

When they stepped back, he grunted in approval. _Come on, words. Work. One at a time._

“New York,” Steve rasped, brow furrowing when nobody in the room immediately answered. Granted, his voice was barely audible, and sounded more like he’d been living off a steady diet of glass and sandpaper, but this was important, dammit. And that had definitely been a word. Two, in fact.

“The city, it’s safe? Schmidt, he escaped— Howard. Need to see Howard. Phillips. Peggy. Debrief.”

Look at him, speaking words. That was plenty more. _A quick study,_ he thought sarcastically.

Whoever the brunet was — the not-Bucky man — he was still holding his hands out, palms open, like he was still debating shoving Steve back into the, uh. Mattress pad. Hospital bed. Whatever it was. Instead, he went for a classy, ghost-like blank stare and an expression that warned him something was very, very off.

“New York City is safe. And so is the rest of the world,” replied weird-suit man, words tactful and deliberately avoiding the request for Steve’s superiors. It’d be something he’d push for, be suspicious of, if he weren’t so goddamn relieved. It was like the strength was sapped out of him, turning the soldier to putty. He tried not to look too exhausted, laying back down.

A trembling hand rose to scrub over Steve’s face, if only to disguise the way his face screwed tight. 

He was alive.

He was alone.

_Swell._

“I really gotta speak to Howard.”

The not-angel-and-not-Bucky man visibly winced, and something ugly turned over in Steve’s stomach when he realized that look: _loss._

“‘Fraid you just missed him.”

“Then call him back,” Steve grit out, biting back the urge to scowl at the angsty bastard. “We’ve got HYDRA’s leader in the wind with some goddamn _cube—”_

“The cube is also safe, Captain.” Weird-suit man smiled thinly, the words no more revealing than his first statement had been. 

“Yeah, and who the _hell_ are all of you? ‘Cause I ain’t so sure about that right now,” Steve snapped, not-so-suddenly fed up at how far he was out of the loop with it all. The strange hospital room. The strange-looking suits. The strange way not-Bucky was staring right through him. The strange way weird-suit man seemed to be nearly buzzing with excitement, despite his neutral expression. The strange lack of soldiers bustling around. The strange equipment in the room. Strange. Strange, in a not good way. Strange, in a way that made his skin crawl, and his fingers twitch toward the shield haphazardly angled against the bed.

At least that seemed to get their attention. Sighing, eyepatch man stood up straight, casting a glance to his colleagues before speaking.

“Captain Rogers. The cube — we call it the Tesseract — it’s safe. If you need to see it for yourself, then that can be arranged once you’re back on your feet. Until then, I’m _really_ gonna need you to not sling the frisbee around. For all our sakes. Name’s Fury. I’m the Director here.”

_“Here?”_

“SHIELD. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. We’ve revamped the science reserve since you went into the ice. Upgraded things a bit. This is Agent Coulson. He does a bit of everything, ‘round here. And this is Tony Stark. SHIELD’s genius consultant. When we found you, we weren’t sure what we were gonna get. We called him in, hoping he could figure out how the hell you survived that crash.”

“Gee, Nick, you’re gonna make me blush,” Tony snorted, a perfect brow arched in measured surprise.

 _Tony Stark._ Steve blinked for a moment, eyes darting to not-angel man. He could see the resemblance pretty easily, now that someone had pointed it out. The dark eyes. The angled jaw, but soft features. The way the grin was just a little lopsided, like Howard did when he said something he was proud of. _Fine._ Their relation was the most believable thing out of all of this, so far.

“Didn’t know Howard had family.”

“Like I said. We, uh. Need to get you up to speed.” Fury’s voice was thin. _Nervous,_ Steve thought. He could tell it wasn’t a common emotion for the man. “You just woke up. Let’s give you some time to ease in.”

At that, Steve couldn’t help the instinctive bristle. He’d heard that line too many times before, standing in hospital hallways and Army tents and his ma’s living room. _Let’s give you some time to ease in, to prepare yourself for the bad news. We all know how hard it is to lose someone. We all know what it’s like. So put on a brave face, and accept the condolences so we can move on to the next family, the next soldier, the next apology letter._

“With all due respect, let’s just get it over with then, Director. Ain’t got much else I can do here, if I’m just gonna be resting.”

It was eerie, the way the silence settled over the room. Nobody wanted to say a word. Steve wasn’t sure he wanted them to, either, now, his heartbeat quickening of its own accord. Beating along to the rhythm of _ohno.ohno.ohno.ohno.ohgod.ohgod.ohgod.ohgod._

_Thumpthump.Thumpthump.Thumpthump.Thumpthump._

“Cap— it’s been a while since you crashed the Valkyrie. A long while. Tony, he can explain his theories on how the serum’s kept you alive this whole time if that’s something you want to know. Yesterday, I got a call from some researchers up north. Said they’d found a craft that was up SHIELD’s alley. We weren’t expecting to find you. When we excavated the plane, our guys found you spread out on the war table, mummy-style, shield in hand. In a block of ice about the size of a sarcophagus.”

Swallowing at the dry feeling in his throat, Steve said nothing. Wasn’t sure if he could if he tried, his ten minutes of vocal practice slipping out from underneath him like a banana peel. Sure, he was no genius, but it didn’t take one to realize a thick block of ice didn’t form in the blink of an eye. And he could ignore the crude comparison for the moment in favor of what was really important.

“You said ‘a long while.’”

“Close to seventy years. It’s April, 2009. Tony Stark, he’s Howard’s son. Howard passed several years ago. Your sacrifice, it changed the war. HYDRA was Germany’s biggest chance for success, and that went down with the Valkyrie.”

_And me._

“Seventy years.”

Steve wasn’t ever one for believing in the whole, what-goes-around-comes-around rule. Sure, he’d believed in God when he was a kid, though the Bible stories never made much sense. They’d made him angry. God, the Old Testament, those prophets, it seemed like one long line of bullies after the next. Throwing around their own weight because they could, scaring everyone who was a little smaller, a little different, a little stubborn.

They’d made him angry, because they told him he’d go to hell for those secrets he never voiced. For— _proclivities. Tendencies._

For the way Bucky’s hair curled during the Sunday masses Steve’s ma would drag the both of them to, if only because Buck’s parents weren’t all that religious. For the way they’d brush pinkies when passing communion. And grin. 

His church attendance died alongside his ma. The belief there was anything out there at all died in the cold light of winter, in the eyes of the first soldier he watched die. It’d flickered to life for just a second at the sight of something he couldn’t comprehend, blazing stars and galaxies at his fingertips and Schmidt being eaten alive by space itself.

Now, he was in the dark. If hell was real, he damn well had enough guilt to carry him there.

He really should’ve paid more attention during mass.

“You gonna be okay, Rogers?” Fury’s voice was much farther down the line than it was a few moments ago, fuzzy and clouded. The concern was there, though. The worry that sounded close to something like Colonel Phillip’s brand.

Steve sighed. 

Maybe this hell was a little bit different than he’d thought. 

“Show me.”


	2. It's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! I'm so excited to really get this fic going. 
> 
> This chapter is inspired by the, "And they were /roommates/," vine. Thank you, vine.
> 
> Granted, Tony's not exactly happy about it at all, but. 
> 
> Also, more Steve angst, because there's never enough of that.

_Bananas taste different now,_ Steve decided flatly. 

It wasn’t the only thing. Strawberries, though those used to be real hard to come by. Tomatoes. Coke. Even bread, with its smoother texture. After three weeks in the twenty-first century, only two of which he’d been able to eat solids, the list was slowly growing, each item added one he wondered if he’d ever be able to eat or drink again without thinking about the way things used to be. It was too strange, to have something so familiar so _off._

Maybe he should be added to the list, too. He was just as off in the twenty-first century as anything else was. Foreign. Alien. _Different._ Enough to wonder if the person who came out of the ice was someone entirely different than who he used to be. It was strange, to think he hadn’t smiled genuinely since 1945. It was even stranger to think that his normally cloudy disposition had been traded for downright stormy. The shrink — _therapist,_ Steve mentally corrected — had said it was to be understandable. Something about a mismanagement of expectations. Though, when the expectation had been that he was going to stay dead, he wasn’t all too sure what that said about him. Maybe she thought he was disappointed in the world he’d woken up in.

No, he wasn’t disappointed. If anything, he was _angry._

Mouth twisting, Steve dropped the banana onto the napkin he’d grabbed from one of the cafe’s napkin dispensers and leaned back against the metal chair, careful not to rattle his cup of coffee too much. He hadn’t really meant to wind up at the café, but between the smell of dark roast and the steady drizzle outside, rain droplets creeping their way down the window mere inches from his eyes, he’d indulged himself. Besides, back before the war, this used to be the corner store he frequented. A hand-painted sign that read _Dan’s_ used to hang outside, boasting as much fresh fruit, milk, and coffee that rations would let a fella buy. It’d been replaced by deep browns and greens, offering up coffee from Seattle. He wasn’t sure what was so special about Seattle coffee, but it tasted like it’d work.

Across the street, St. Joseph’s Parish loomed. Older, sure, with the stained glass windows a little darker, the stone a little more chipped, but still pretty damn similar to the younger parish he’d walk through once a week. His ma would say the building was just a little wiser. On the steps, a group of boys kicked around a soccer ball, school uniforms mussed and muddied from a rainy day spent running through puddles. The sight quirked his lips upward, memories of his own childhood clouding the back of his eyelids. That hadn’t changed all that much, either. He used to watch Bucky do nearly the same thing, slinging around a baseball with the other neighborhood kids after mass, jumping around the same steps and hopping the same railings these children were. 

Next to him, a familiar shadow came to a halt.

“Didn’t take Captain America for someone to put so much cream and sugar in his coffee.”

It shouldn’t surprise Steve, the way Fury seemed to appear and disappear into thin air. Still, it managed to, caution flashing across his features for a half-second before schooling himself into neutrality: An expression, he’d learned, that was very important, when it came to Fury. Because, _apparently,_ a natural distress over something, like waking up seven decades in the future, was enough to send someone to therapy.

Not that he was bitter about it. 

Glancing up at the Director, Steve raised a brow. “Don’t have rations anymore, do we?”

“No Sir, we do not,” came the easy reply, a ghost of a grin tugging on Fury’s lips. Steve wasn’t sure why he took it as a challenge, but it was enough to make him cut his gaze back out to the Parish.

“I like sweet things.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Fury noted, before falling into a pointed silence — one that prompted more of an order to speak up than a suggestion. His eye was heavy on Steve before the man finally gave in. In the new century, it seemed, rather than Generals and Colonels demanding reports, super spies would sit in passive aggressive silence until the tension became unbearable. So, fine. He’d budge.

“Have you got a mission for me, Sir?”

Fury’s mouth twitched at the goading before finally taking his seat. After a beat of hesitation, he pulled a thick file of papers from his trench coat, slid them onto the table in between them, and nodded. “Of sorts. More of an assignment, really. Just to get you back on your feet until we call you in for the real thing.”

Steve frowned, pulling the file toward him to leaf through. Most of it didn’t make immediate sense, unfamiliar photos and places marking their territory alongside maps that had been updated after he’d crashed and declassified profiles of people he didn’t recognize. If he had to guess, it was a highlight reel of events to catch up on. Which was — to say the least — a lot to deal with. Especially for something that wasn’t considered a mission.

“So I’m still benched, technically. I’ve just got homework.”

Snorting, Fury leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms. “Trust me. We’ll get you in as soon as all the boxes are checked and you’re cleared for action. We need you back, Cap. There’s a brave, dangerous new world out there waiting for you. But, the last thing we need is for you to take a hit you can’t shake because we put you back out too early. You ran your first eight minute mile this morning. Still got a ways to go, right?”

The immediate scowl brought on by Fury’s probing question was all the answer he needed. For all Steve’s readiness to get back into the field, to return to some sense of normalcy, he was still recovering from the aftermath of an icy seven decades. It’d taken him almost an entire week to be able to swallow food that hadn’t been turned into a smoothie, almost two to pass a ten minute mile, and even now, he’d break into a sweat if he did much more than half an hour at the punching bag. Frankly, his body was closer to its pre-serum ability than it was when he’d gone into the ice. And that was _not_ something he was willing to think about.

“What’s the assignment, Director?”

Fury stifled a smirk before offering a verbose, “We’re temporarily relocating you to Malibu.”

 _Um, what?_ Steve blinked, temporarily ruffled by the reply. Malibu was across the country in California. It wasn’t much more than a small surf town the last he’d heard of it, briefly mentioned by Howard during a long story about swimsuit models and movie stars. Were they _banishing_ him until he got better? Straightening in his chair, the Captain shook his head. “With all due respect, Sir, what’s in Malibu?”

“Right now? The closest connection to your past that you haven’t outright refused to see. Tony Stark, he’s got a home there. We’ve made the arrangements with his company’s CEO, a woman named Pepper Potts. She, uh. Wrangles him. You’ll like her plenty. I think the more you spend time—”

 _Refused to see._ Huffing, the Captain pointedly directed his gaze away from Fury, batting away the rest of the response in blatant dismissal. Alerting Peggy that he was alive was one of the first things he’d requested SHIELD do. But since then? He hadn’t been able to bring himself to see the Agent. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Peggy had been one of his closest friends throughout the war. He’d loved her, he really had. She understood him in nearly excruciating detail, and he’d understood her. 

The truth was, he was scared. She’d married Gabe a handful of years after he’d gone into the ice. Had Gabe known her secret? After spending several years under the same roofs and in the same tents as Gabe, who slept and flirted with solely women, it was pretty obvious he didn’t have the same arrangement Steve and Peggy had: Despite the circumstances, play a couple, and dissuade others from looking too closely behind the curtains of either of their personal lives. And now, Gabe was gone, and Peggy was old, often unaware of her surroundings or who was taking care of her.

What if Gabe didn’t know, and she’d been doomed to the fate she’d been so scared of? What if she’d given up? Worst of all, what if she’d changed her mind? Wound up listening to all the people she’d been so determined to prove wrong?

Steve wanted to see her. Desperately. But there were just too many memories. Too many questions he was afraid to know the answer to. So for now, while he could, he’d blame it on recovering. _Adjusting,_ like Fury said. Which— Oh, Christ. He’d just swatted away his boss. Eyes widening, Steve’s shoulders bunched in a flash of concern.

“Sorry. _Sorry._ Uh, I just— you’re— you’re ordering me to move to Malibu, to live with Howard’s son?”

With a sly smirk, Fury simply nodded his head. “Pretty much, yeah. Your therapist seems to think it’ll do you some good to get out of New York. That way you can rest up, see the ocean, make a friend, catch up on things. If there’s anyone qualified to teach you about the 21st century, It’s Stark.”

Rest up. See the _ocean._ Like he didn’t see the ocean, in perfect, unholy, hellish detail every night as he slept, freezing and unforgiving. Like he hadn’t felt it fill up his lungs without a drop of mercy, as the Valkyrie sank to the bottom of the sea. Like it wasn’t there, waiting behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Drowning in the Arctic was something he’d do anything to forget. But between an achingly perfect memory, and SHIELD agents asking him about how things used to be “back in the day,” and his therapist’s prodding notes about his need to stay warm and his distant behavior on the topic, he couldn’t get away.

 _What’d it feel like?_ She’d had the nerve to ask. _Drowning. Tell me about it._

It’d taken most of his willpower not to laugh in her face, or break the arms of the overstuffed chair he’d been planted in. He’d snorted, looked out the too-bright window, forcing himself to stare at the sun in the hopes it’d warm him up more. He didn’t tell her about how it’d been slow, because of the air bubble in the Valkyrie. Didn’t tell her how the frigid water had him nearly frozen in place, sucking the oxygen out of his lungs quicker than it could replace it with liquid. Didn’t tell her his last words were to Bucky, someone who’d been dead and gone for more than a year. He’d just— waited, until his hour was up, and she dismissed him.

He wondered if Fury had told her to ask that question so they could send him away. Out of sight, out of mind. Cart the supersoldier, the lab rat, off to Malibu to be watched by a scientist. It was similar enough to what they’d done with him before he went off to fight, back when they didn’t know what to do with them. It made sense that they didn’t know what to do with him now, too: old-fashioned and clueless. 

“I’m _fine,”_ Steve ground out. “New York is home.”

“That seems to be the problem, Captain,” Fury directly retorted, leaning forward to plant his elbows on the coffee table. If Steve didn’t know any better, he would’ve taken it as aggression. 

“It’s the memories, right? You see them everywhere. Got beat up in that alley, except that alley’s a parking lot now. What used to be the old corner store is a fuckin’ Starbucks. Central Park looks a lot nicer without Hooverville. A lot less soldiers, a lot more billboards, and all of it’s different. Can’t get away from how things used to be. Especially with an enhanced memory like yours, I’m told, watching things play out in front of you like a movie instead of right behind your eyelids. All in perfect detail—”

“How long am I being sent out there for? Sir.” The words were sharp, hard. Steve wouldn’t look at the other man as he asked his question, unable to even if it’d been something he’d wanted to do. Something about the response caused the Director to back off, shoulders dropping as a hesitant sigh was drawn out of him. Slow and worn out, like the steam of one of the machines behind the barista counter. Like the aging of the parish across the street.

“A month, for the time being. We’ll adjust as needed. Get you out with a mission as soon as you’re back to normal. Don’t worry, you’ve still got some homework. I want everything in that file memorized, back to front. And you can take the shield.”

With a bitter snort, the Captain glanced up. “Think normal’s a bit subjective, huh?”

“With you? Yeah, probably.” Pursing his lips, Fury seemed to shift in his chair, almost as if he were considering whether or not to say anything further. Ultimately, he did, one hand tiredly rubbing the back of his head. Steve wanted to ask him to stop while he was ahead, the nerves in his gut already shot. Whatever else the other man said, it wasn’t going to help. Nothing else had, so far. 

“Look, Rogers. Believe it or not, it’s not every day we defrost supersoldiers after seven decades of being shut in the freezer. We’ve never had this happen before. It’s uncharted territory. But I think we both know there’s a level of normal we want you to be at. And I think we both know you’re not there.”

Steve’s response was instant. Blunt.

“I’m fine.”

The SHIELD director scoffed, rolled his eye. “Wouldn’t recommend fibbing to a spy, Captain.”

“I’m _fine._ Just need to get that mile down to two minutes.”

Steve was fine. He _was._ It didn’t matter that the rain smattering against the window was beginning to sound more like the distant clatter of guns and armor; or that the more antsy he got, the more he could hear Fury’s heartbeat and the heartbeat of every other person in the café; or that he was sure the anxious tick in his jaw was prominent, exactly like it was when his fight or flight response was about to kick in. Fists clenching under the table, he glared up at the other man. Tried to convince himself not to let out the warning noise building up in his chest, and barely succeeded. 

“You leave tomorrow at 0800. We’ll send a car for you,” Fury determined, pointedly moving on from the game they’d repeatedly played over the past three weeks: The one where he agreed not to pry too deeply, Steve agreed to not take off on the run, and things would be _fine._ Though as he stood, the spy faltered, his dark eye searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find.

“I’ll give you a, uh. Word of advice, for Stark. Bring a pair of headphones. He likes to play music at all hours. And, look. For God’s sake, don’t sleep with him.”

Well, that was enough to give him whiplash.

“I— _what?”_

“You heard me. 0800. Nat’s flying you over.”

“Sleep with him?” Steve insisted, brow pinching in distress. His hands pressed together underneath the table, white-knuckled and bruising as a flare of panic lacerated his gut. “I’m n-not— that’s not—”

“I don’t need the lowdown. Not my business. Just a word of advice, whether or not it’s relevant.”

Static filling his ears, heart slamming against the underside of his ribcage, Steve shook his head, just once. _Play it cool, play it safe,_ his thoughts screamed at him. _It’s not like they’ve got proof. Not like they know. They don't know. Just keep it that way, and things will stay safe. Get it together, Rogers._

“It’s not,” he choked out, forcing himself to meet the man’s gaze head-on. “Not relevant.”

Fury hardly blinked twice before shrugging, tossing a wad of dollar bills onto the table. “0800, Captain Rogers. You should try the caramel latte. It’s a good one. Real sweet.”

He thought he might hate the man, a little bit. Stormy eyes, more red-rimmed than he’d like them to be, followed the director out the door, before screwing shut as he fought for air. Urging himself to breath in through his nose, out through his mouth, the same instructions he’d given long ago, when breathing was difficult for more than near terror. The pacing of Fury’s heartbeat hadn’t changed, his posture had stayed the same; for once, the wave of relief was heavier than that of the anxiety. He’d bought it. Steve was _safe,_ for the moment.

Besides, at this point? The only other person who knew his secret was a few hours upstate. And as much trouble as Peggy Carter caused, she was the one person he could count on to keep his secrets. Breathing out a slow sigh, he glanced down at the wad of bills Fury left him.

Yeah. After that, he damn well deserved another coffee. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Before his gig as Captain America, Steve never left the state of New York. Really, he’d never even left the city. With most folks struggling to recover from the Depression, money had been stretched thin for those who could barely get by, leaving the highway roads open for taxis and those rich enough to cruise away from the city. It’d never been something that interested him all too much. He loved his home, with its busy streets and busier people, bustling about with a nearly religious fervency. 

But then, of course, duty had called. It’d taken the form of tights and war bonds and call-girls for coworkers — something he’d never really been able to parse through his substantially mixed feelings for. Patriotism via the idea of a monkey dancing to the tune of propaganda. So he’d shoved that into the box of things he didn’t think about, too, right next to Bucky’s death and the _other_ thing. 

New Jersey had been the first place outside of the city he’d been, a little darker, a little more dismal, a mild punch to his Brooklyn-loving heart. He didn’t think much of it.

But man, the rest of the country had been something else. Rolling hills in the midwest, miles of corn and windmills. Cities, smaller ones than New York, but still huge. Chicago, Atlanta, Houston, Washington, D.C., Philly, Detroit. Tiny towns and suburbia and farms and the giant dustbowl of the west. He’d been through it all, whether it be the destination or part of the tour. Met all kinds of people. Put on a smile. Kissed babies and hugged wives. Tried to ignore the tears in their eyes as they spoke about their husbands who were off in Europe or the Pacific, promised through grit teeth and a lead tongue that their donations would help, even if all it really did was empty their pocketbook.

Malibu, though … wow.

Sprawling, in a way that was nearly opposite to New York. Skyscrapers and bridges were swapped with long stretches of highway and palm trees, mansions and gleaming white buildings scattering the tan backdrop. And despite the rolling thunder and steady drizzle of rain splattering against the asphalt, it was somehow still brighter than the familiar neighborhoods of brownstones and brick. 

He could see why someone would think it’d be good for him to get away here. For anyone else, it might’ve done them some real good. But the ocean spray, the bristling wind, it was enough to set his jaw, the weak curl of nausea in his gut one he doubted would be a rare experience moving forward. At the end of the day, though, he didn’t have a choice. Orders were orders. Fury was the boss. Which meant, he guessed, Malibu would have to be therapeutic, whether he liked it or not, on threat of his work — really, one of the few things he had left.

It was _fine._

The drive over to Stark’s home was mostly quiet, save for the occasional comment by the driver — Happy, he said his name was, Stark’s head of security — pointing out good surfing spots, pizza places, movie theaters. Just once, he’d asked Steve for an I.D., and nearly blanched when he’d reached to the front of the car with his SHIELD-issued clearance card. After that, he stopped speaking, and Steve turned his gaze out the window to watch the palm trees pass by for the rest of the hour-long drive.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts drifted to the past. To Howard, who he knew as a young bachelor, content to never settle down with anything except his business. He’d gotten married, lived a life, had a kid. A successful company after the war, too, from what it seemed like. Steve grimaced at that, eyes lowering to his hands. Howard had lived a long, happy life, and gone and died, and Steve had seen him just three weeks ago, young and flashy.

“Captain?” Happy’s voice pulled him out of his head, the man’s eyes watching him curiously in the rear-view mirror. “We’re here.”

In a word, the Stark mansion was _new._ Some new-age, artist-architect team had undoubtedly decided to take on the challenge of creating something so California it hurt, with its sloping, rounded white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Steve wanted to hate it, wanted to keep his door shut and have Happy drive him back to the airport. But it was beautiful, and artistic, and intriguing enough that he found the courage to open the door, shouldering two of his duffle bags on one side, and his shield on the other.

While Happy held an ID against a black keypad next to the front doors, Steve took in the sights: through the windows, he could see an indoor fountain, smooth, white-marbeled textures, a grand piano. Beyond that, cream-colored, chic furniture was littered around massive windows offering up a view of the ocean. He could practically smell the wealth as they stepped inside, clean and crisp like linen, and the only thing that kept him from outright wrinkling his nose on impact was the redhead in front of them, standing with her back to Happy.

“Hey, Miss Potts,” the security guard called out, sliding up behind her. It must have startled her, a weak laugh spluttering off her lips as she whipped around to face them.

“Happy! God, it’s so good to see you. There’s a, um, thing, you’ll want to hear about in a bit, okay?” The woman looked like she wanted to say more before Happy cleared his throat, not-so-subtly jerking his head toward Steve.

“Oh, Christ, he’s _early?_ Hi. I’m so sorry, you must be Captain Rogers,” the redhead offered, pulling a glass tablet out from under her arm. “I’m CEO of Stark Industries. My name’s—”

“Pepper!”

That was a familiar voice. 

"Are celebrity-impersonation stripper-grams getting uncanny valley close, or is _Captain America_ actually standing in my damn living room?"

_Tony._

Swallowing hard, Steve dragged his eyes from where Pepper had begun to show him a digital form to the source of the sharp tone: the billionaire was standing at the entrance to a staircase. Rather than dressing in a smart suit like he’d been the last time they’d seen one another, Tony was clothed in ragged jeans and a work shirt, both fabric and tanned skin littered with grease stains. The only thing messier than his clothes were his curls, mussed like he’d gone and stuck his finger in a light socket. His expression reflected the idea, obviously stunned the sight in front of him, a pretty crimson dusting high on his cheeks.

He was, Steve realized in horror, still _beautiful._

“Um,” he offered smartly, at a loss for words.

“He’ll be staying with us for the next month or so, Tony,” the woman, Pepper, recovered, her eyes rolling as she pointed out a line for Steve to sign on with a painted fingernail. “You had the memo on your desk last week.”

Tony blinked, because apparently, it was _his_ turn to be stunned by the response. Lips parted, his eyes darted from Happy, to Pepper, to Steve. Even for him, it was hard to parse through the man’s expressions. But his heartbeat? He could hear that, loud and clear and pounding like hell.

And then, the moment passed. Visibly shaking himself out of the shock, Stark schooled his expression into something miffed, hand waving in a gesture between Pepper and Steve like they’d been conspiring against him. From the amused, damn near _pleased_ look on Pepper’s face, he was beginning to wonder if they had.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Tony insisted incredulously. “No way in hell did I agree to this, Pep. I’d remember something like that. And besides, we’re— we’re _busy—”_

“You did agree to this,” Pepper interrupted smoothly, glancing down to tap at the signature Steve had scrawled on the tablet. “Technically. You took one look at the stack of paper on your desk, told me to use my best judgement on behalf of you, and I thought this was the right move to make. Yes, you might be busy, but you can be busy next to Captain Rogers.”

“Ma’am, you can just call me Steve.”

At that, Pepper smiled, warm and inviting. He liked her, he decided. It was an easy one to make, despite his normally cautious nature. Maybe it was the way Tony treated her with such obvious trust, posture nearly completely different than he’d been the first time they’d met, open and easygoing rather than telegraphed and wary. Maybe it was the way she seemed similar to Peggy, oozing easy confidence and control. She was a woman who worked to get where she was, and she had, without a doubt, earned it.

“Steve,” she repeated. “Well, Steve, it’s nice to meet you. Like I said, I’m Pepper. You’ve met Tony already, right? Um, not that— I know anything about that. I definitely don’t know anything about that meeting. Where you met…”

Yeah, Steve liked her. He offered a light smile, hands slipping into the pockets of his khakis while sneaking another glance at Tony, who had, coincidentally, decided to study a grease mark on his sneaker in that exact moment. 

“Yes, we met briefly. He, uh. Woke me up from the ice.” Before Steve had been wheelchaired over to look out the window, into a busy, bright Times Square, and promptly locked himself in one of the restrooms to cope for the better part of an hour. _Good times._

Pepper arched a perfect brow, her gaze cutting across to Tony, who was now _really_ studying the grease mark on his sneaker, pursing his lips like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “Really?”

After a beat of silence, he lobbed a shoulder upward in a shrug. “We weren’t expecting it to happen. He was supposed to be comatose, mostly, and I’d come to analyze some blood samples, bring in some files I had on him. That’s what the Leatherman of Penzance asked me to do. So I said I wanted to see him. Y’know, scientific curiosity. Bent over to get a good look, and he just— opened his eyes. Scared the shit outta me.”

Steve had to bite back a laugh — the first time he’d had to do that since he woke up — at the reminder of his not-angel damn near cursing him out in surprise. “The feeling was mutual,” he murmured instead, eliciting an interested hum from Tony.

Who then frowned, seemingly reminding himself of his position in all this. “Pepper, there’s no way this is a good idea. I mean, come on. Seriously?” Gesturing between the two of them, he shot the CEO an indiscernible look. It must’ve been a normal one for her, though, considering she didn’t blink twice.

Again, Steve was struck by the level of trust Stark clearly had for the woman. Maybe they were together? Though, he didn’t see any wedding bands on either of them, and Fury’s brief description of Tony suggested he was about as ready to settle down as Howard had been when they’d been friends. Pepper didn’t seem to take the question lightly, either, her expression gentle as she hesitated, ran through all the options one last time. 

“Yeah, Tony, I think it is. Phil was the one who recommended it, from what I understand. I think it could be good for all parties.”

Phil. That was a name Steve actually recognized, and one that he was surprised to hear. Phil Coulson, one of Fury’s most trusted agents, had helped him settle into the tiny room he called home in SHIELD’s building. Showed him how to use his phone, introduced him to Natasha and Clint, two other agents who lived on sight. The knowledge that Phil approved this released a thread of tension in his shoulders, the same way it seemed to do to Tony, who frowned in thought.

“His name is _Agent,_ Pep. Happy? Happy. Hey, focus up. Security’s still your job, right? Another body in the house, potential unknown, another one from _Fury._ You’re really just cool with this? If he kicks your ass like the last one did, don’t come crying to me about it, alright?”

Happy looked unimpressed at the protest. “Boss,” he offered, pointedly glancing at the circular bag Steve was shouldering. “He’s Captain America. He’s, like, the opposite of a security threat.”

Sighing, the genius batted his hand at Happy. “You’ll trust anybody these days. And JARVIS? C’mon, Buddy, back me up, here. There’s no way this can actually be a good idea.”

Overhead, a polite, accented voice chimed, surprising absolutely nobody but Steve, blue eyes blowing wide with alarm when he couldn’t match the voice to a body.

_"I am afraid I find myself unable to do so, Sir. My primary protocols are to ensure your safety and wellbeing, and results of analysis indicate that proximity to data files, discussion, or even memorabilia related to Captain America creates measurable increase in your levels of positive neurotransmitters, including dopamine and serotonin. Current parameters included, at a level of increase significant enough to offset the additional spike in cortisol since you became aware of the Captain's presence in the building. The biologically logical conclusion is that—”_

“Yeah, okay, that’s enough from you,” grumbled Tony. “Mute.”

What the hell? Was it some kind of speaker? A nurse on the other side of the intercom?

Tony scoffed, as if a voice hadn’t just responded from the goddamn ceiling. “Everybody likes superheroes, J. None of that’s conclusive. I programmed you smarter than that, didn’t I? God, I swear— I’ll donate you to MIT. No, _CalTech._ This is mutiny, in my house. Betrayal! It’s— it’s _rude—”_

“Tony’s very pleased to have you, Steve. He’s admired you for a long time,” Pepper translated, turning to face Steve fully. “If you want, he’d be happy to show you to your room? You can unpack your things, and then he can give you a tour of the house.”

Stark blanched, his shoulders bunching up around his chin in argument. _“Busy,_ Pep, I’m busy—”

“Yes, busy with Steve. You did look at your schedule this morning, didn’t you?”

Shooting the redhead a glare that carried the emotion of a foot stomp, Tony huffed out a breath before swiveling on his heel to face Steve, a grease-covered finger loosely pointed his way. “I don’t exactly have time to hold your hand through learning how to use the microwave, or whatever else you’re gonna freak out about. _Ah—”_ he interrupted, wagging the finger at the Captain’s scrunching face, “No, you are. Don’t lie. Captain America doesn’t lie. It’s fine. JARVIS freaks everybody out. But, still. The future’s different. And this house? My lab? Might as well be the goddamn church of the future. You’re _absolutely_ gonna freak out.

_Different._

“I’ll manage. It’s—” Steve’s words faltered, confidence crumbling by the second, still monumentally confused by whoever JARVIS was. _‘Different’_ was an understatement, a dangerous one to make. Who knew what’d happen here? Who knew if he’d freak out? Certainly not him. Steve hardly knew anything anymore, his face constantly slightly pinched with nerves, afraid to play the game when there were new, unfamiliar rules. But here, there was no point in putting his foot down. No reason to say ‘no.’ It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and it certainly wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. Lips pressing into a thin line, the Captain nodded.

“It’s gonna be good for me.”

Eyebrows raising sharply, Tony shot him a pointed look of disbelief after wrinkling his nose. Still, though, his gaze softened, clearly parsing through the lie in true Stark form. _God._ He wondered how much Tony and Howard were alike, whether or not they got along well. If the few rumours he’d heard about the younger Stark were true, then it seemed like the guy followed in his dad’s footsteps to the tee — built-in bullshit detector included. He said nothing, though, brow furrowing together in thought before tipping his head back and huffing, defeated.

“Fine. Fine, okay? Fine. I guess we’re doing this, then. But seriously, house tour, gawk at all the shinies, AI 101, sure, but afterward, I really do have work. That I specifically, um, didn’t put on the schedule. Okay? Some very important, very non-scheduled work, that has a literal, ticking time limit on it, and I don’t want it to blow up by accident, so.”

At that, Steve perked up, curiosity spiking past his self-doubt. “Is it the Iron Man suit? I read about it on the flight over. You’ve got a, uh, file, with SHIELD. It looks incredible.”

It was just about the biggest understatement he could skate by with. The suit, gleaming red and gold, had been like nothing he’d ever seen before, reminiscent of the science fiction movies they played in theaters and the angels in the Old Testament that his ma would talk about, terrifying and awesome in the way that inspired awe, not the way he used the word, with a toothy grin and excitement in his voice. 

From what he’d read on file, Tony had made the first of its kind in the middle of a cave last year, held hostage by men who’d barely kept him alive. There hadn’t been any video footage, any photo evidence of what happened during his escape. But there had been the aftermath, which SHIELD had documented carefully: charred remains. Metal doors ripped off their hinges. A kill count that rivaled his own solo missions. For all Tony Stark appeared to be, smooth and suave and genius like his father, that wasn’t all. He was dangerous. He’d raised the stakes for everyone, in a way that changed history, with nothing but metal scraps and determination. And he was standing here in front of Steve, all that carnage behind him, like it’d just been another Tuesday.

No wonder Fury kept an eye on him. 

“Yeah, it is. I’m working on its tanking capacity,” Tony replied, his tone mildly surprised while he shifted in place. “I, uh. Wanna be able to up the damage it can take without making it too hard to maneuver in, so right now we’re in the process of finding that sweet spot where the damage is significant, but not fatal.”

“Sounds complicated,” Steve deadpanned smoothly, drawing an amused snort from the brunet.

 _“Complicated_ is just about right. Though, if you’ve got the frisbee with you, that’d be an interesting experiment. Heard it’s made out of the good stuff. Tell you what. I’ll trade you a tour of the house — a good one — for an hour of your time down in my lab to test it out, hm?”

Stark’s lips rose in a half grin, like he wanted to be smug but decided against it. Still, he rolled his shoulder to shrug and tipped his head toward the hall, dark eyes glittering in a way that pulled a shudder from Steve. Fury’s voice started in the back of his mind, replaying once-terrifying words that were, to his own numb terror, starting to make sense. In context. Maybe. Possibly, he could see why the notion would be a valid one.

Not that he’d ever consider it.

He couldn’t.

“Seems like a good deal to me,” Steve rasped, promptly worried about how _bad_ of a deal that could turn out to be.

“Course it is,” he grinned, teeth flashing mischievously. “Pep, if this blows up, it was your idea. JARVIS, put that on the record. And, if it, like, literally blows up, I’m blaming you when I have to recalibrate DUM-E, _again._ He cried last time. You really wanna be responsible for making my ‘bot cry? No? Good.”

Nodding, Tony glanced over to the soldier.

“Steve Rogers.”

He paused, rolling the name around on his tongue.

“Yeah. Okay. C’mon, then. Let’s play house.”


End file.
